


Clone down (In the dumps)

by Negative_pines_creep



Category: Clone High
Genre: Best friends with Van Gogh, F/M, I relate to Van Gogh, JFK being all cute, JFk fluff, Or am i right, Reader Insert, amirite?, comfort characters, i'm depressed, if nobody got me i know jfk got me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 08:35:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26849014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Negative_pines_creep/pseuds/Negative_pines_creep
Summary: All the other clones were genetically engineered to be amazing at, at least one trait: Sports. Art. Music. Academic studies. All the other clones were beautiful, or popular, or talented, or well-liked. Of course. Of course you were cloned to be clinically depressed, front and center, official diagnosis, no treatment, good luck with that. So you had a plan, and a date, and a method. But not before that handsome JFK clone could stop you, with that dumb but life-saving look on his face.
Relationships: Clone high jfk/reader, JFK/Reader, clone high jfk/you, jfk/you
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm depressed, bored, I have too much time on my hands, and I kin JFK, I'll give up two chapters in, I really don't know.

Trigger warning: Reader has depression/suicidal thoughts.

“This is not fair Scudworth! Not fair at all!” You screamed that loudly, directing your words at the lab-coated principal, who was sitting in front of you, at his wooden desk, with his hands clasped, shiny black hair sleeked back onto his forehead. He almost jumped in comical-like fright at your loud, nauseating words, eyeing you with those beady, snake-like eyes. “It is fair Y/N, you have to stop questioning it.” “Why. Why did you have to do this?" And by why, why did he have to genetically engineer for your clone to be clinically depressed? That was you. Clinically depressed. A student at Clone High, probably the most un-happy student anyone would ever see strolling down the hallways. That was the official freaking diagnosis, you even had a medical certificate for it. It came with no remorse, just two sharp, unforgiven words, within nineteen, heart-stabbing un-forgiven letters.

“Because your original clone was a bad person Y/N. And I saw fit to make it up with you. It's not a punishment, it's a karma the universe balanced out.” He replied to your angered question with those words, with that grating, annoying voice of his. “Ok, fine! But that doesn’t mean you ruin my fucking life Scudworth! My brain is in literal hell! This is hell! You could’ve cloned me to be beautiful, or popular, or smart, but _no,_ _no way_ , you had to clone me to be clinically depressed! I hate you!” It was stupid. All of this was so stupid. All principal Scudworth had to do, was clone you to be happy, but he couldn’t even do that. Pathetic. It was utterly pathetic.

In his office, you angrily kicked around a basket for catching paper, the basket which then flew into the wall with a loud, ear-shattering crash. You were absolutely fuming, absolutely livid, absolutely out of your mind with rage. You couldn’t escape your clone’s traits, as you were the clone. Depressed. It almost made you laugh. Now, how absolutely fucked up was that?  
You could’ve been artsy, or in love with literature, or good at running cross-country meets, for fuck’s sake, you could have even been at least likeable, but Scudworth had declared you virtually un-deserving of life itself.

Out. You wanted out of this crap life. “I had a wife Y/N.” Scudworth then whispered, something like sadness in his eyes. “OK, I’m bet. What happened to her?” You muttered that with a slightly-lowered voice, calming your rage a tiny bit to listen to his boring pity-party. “Can you guess? She was depressed as well.” “Did she, did she take her own life?” There was fear threaded through the words of your reluctant probe, fear that you couldn’t even find the strength to conceal. “Spot on Y/N! She was so saddened by what I was becoming, with creating these clones, she thought I was turning evil and dark, she didn’t want anything to do with me any longer, so she drank some of my lab chemicals, and then, and then…………”

Scudworth burst into tears. Glumly, you gave him a misfortunate look, rubbing at your eyebrows. You did feel kind of bad honestly, turns out, he wasn’t actually a sadistic, cruel-hearted scientist, but rather a lost old man who had managed to go on without his wife for years.  
But now he was cracking apart at the edges, and he was going to drag you down with him to wherever the hell this interaction of sad words was going. “I’m sorry principal Scudworth. I really am.” He blew into a tissue extensively loudly, weeping his eyes out for dramatic effect. “And Y/N, you will not ruin this for me! If I told you, I cloned you to look exactly like my passed wife, almost to give her another life so to speak, you will not mess it up! You’re the closest person to anybody who actually loves me! You remind me of her so much! You’re all I have left!”

“What!” Oh my God, what the actual hell? You barked out a delirious, hysterical, crazed laugh. He was wholeheartedly nuts. Scudworth was a fifty year old man, and you were, well you were you; burdened, saddened, and fatigued with pain.  
“I’m not your wife Scudworth. That’s just creepy. I'm a girl. I'm just a lifeless clone. I’m sorry for your loss, but she’s dead, and you have to accept that. You messed up bad with me. You cloned me to be clinically depressed, and I can’t take it anymore! You know what? I’m pissed, I'm bet, I honestly don’t care anymore. I don’t care about anything. Screw you and your dead wife. I’m going to end everything as well. I’ll drain your lab chemicals with no regrets. I’m going the same way as her. I’m sorry. This is just not living. And, you. Are. At. Fault.”

Scudworth looked at you desperately, such despair in his rounded little eyes. And he begged, begged for his dead wife to come back to him. “Y/N. Please. This is not what she would have wanted. Stay alive for her. I'm a sick man, and my wife is dead, and I want to join her, but I have you instead.” “I’m not her, Scudworth! I’m not her. Whatever you see in my eyes that resembles her beauty, it's now gone.” You whispered those last few words, before turning and hurrying out of his room, tears flying from your own eyes.  
It was so melodramatic, but you were feeling the worst you had ever felt in years. Bad day. Chemistry explosion in the lab, 0/10 on math test, you couldn't even find the right words for your English essay. There was no beating around the bush, you had experienced a public mental breakdown. Would you even get through this up-coming night, could you even make it to tomorrow? Would you be able to survive it? Survive the self-hatred, survive the demons, survive the racing heartbeat, survive the migraine pounding at your temples, survive the yelling words that no one cared about you at all????

You ran as fast as possible from Scudworth’s office, almost sprinting down the school hallway. His words were still haunting you, his completely draining bull-shit about his dead wife. If you looked exactly like her, that just couldn't be the greatest omen for you, couldn't it? Ugh. His lab chemicals were almost calling you already. Lost in your saddened thoughts, you narrowly avoided bumping into someone, almost slamming into their muscular-like back. This someone was tall, with devilish good looks, and a red striped shirt interrupted with white lines. Of course. Of-freaking-course. You had almost tripped into the clone of JFK. Handsome, well-liked, a womanizing stud, he could get any girl he wanted, too fucking dumb to even think about the repercussions of being depressed. Every single second, of every single hour, of every single day, of every single month, of every single year, he was happy.  
Ignorance must have been bliss for him. “I, uh, eh, lass, are you alright?” He questioned that to you with the thickest accent you had ever heard, staring at your running tears anxiously, shrugging his bag onto his wide shoulders. You had bumped into him in front of his locker, which was plastered with picture of American football and half-naked girls. Hastily, you tried to wipe the tears away, tried to move past him. He stopped you, annoyingly, his lop-sided eyebrows raised. Almost like he knew the word on your mind. Suicide. Scudworth’s wife had taken that route. If, and only if, virtually, you were the same person as her, weren’t you destined to take that route as well?

“Lass, I, uh, ehh, did your boyfriend break up with you? Why the tears? I, uh, we can talk about it.” On the topic about thinking inside the box. This was so much more than a stupid, irrelevant cut-off love story! This was not a chemical romance, these thoughts inside your head were life and death. You had only ever had one boyfriend before, the clone of Vincent Van Gogh, and the two of you were too depressed to have healthy discussions about literally anything else asides than death. You tried to shove past him again, but he loaded his textbooks into your hands, fishing through his locker once more.   
“I want, God help me, I want to die JFK. I want to join Ponce De Leon in heaven.” He stared at you in shock, still saddened by his best mate’s death, now, seemingly even more saddened by your wanting to go the same way.

His dumb-founded facial features were even more dumb-founded than usual. “Wait......." He took a pause, like with his empty brain he needed more time to process your words. It then clicked, as he slammed his locker shut. "Lass. We can get together at my house, talk about it. You are a vulnerable teenage girl. That's alright. It's ok to not be ok. We don't want you to be a dead girl though. Please don’t, I, uh, ehh, please don’t end your own life, if that's, ehhh, uh, what you were thinking about.”  
You just simply scoffed at him, free-loading his books onto the floor. It was like a plastic scene of dumping your ex's possessions at their feet, but he was not your ex, this was not the time, and you needed to get the hell away from him and far away from this hellhole that was school immediately. Besides, he was even dumber in spoken word than in appearance. That was the weakest attempt at toxic positivity you had ever heard in your entire life. You finally managed to shove past him, past his worried, anxious look, as he was too distracted with staring vaguely at his fallen books. He tried to grab onto your desperately, but there was poison in your eyes, you were so full of crap, bullshit, and fake words of 'we care for you' when 'we' didn't, that you literally just wanted to explode. Why show so much concern about you? Why give a flying fuck? He would only want you for your body anyway. You knew that. “Don’t fucking touch me JFK. You are a womanising prick. Touch my dead body next If you really want to. If anybody really cares about me, it's certainly not anybody still alive, and it's certainty not you.”

And then you ran past him again, ran past an absent-looking Abe Lincoln, ran past a Cleopatra tongue-battling with her boyfriend, ran past a Gandhi who was pranking someone, ran past a Joan of Arc who was trying to get her words processed by Abe, ran past a Vincent Van Gogh who was trailing you with a saddened look, the only person you had ever felt close to, ran past all the other fucking clones of clone high, most importantly running from yourself and the dead wife made in your cursed, un-ethical image.......


	2. Chapter Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get to be lonely with Van Gogh. If anyone has any constructive criticism or advice for my writing, feel free to leave a comment!!

“I’m sorry Y/N, that must be really hard for you to cope with. Scudworth is definitely not a fair man, I understand that. I never asked to be cloned either. I didn’t sign up for this cursed life.” Vincent van Gogh whispered that saddened, resonate statement silently, tucking his weary head into his arms. You were currently at his house, in his room to be more specific, and you were venting away about the horrid recent events that had transpired yesterday afternoon, including but not limited to:

Scudworth droning on about his passed wife, annoying all your senses. You completely losing your mind, quite frankly screaming out your vocal chords at the former until they shrivelled up. JFK interrupting you by being an utter prick, a womanising, sport-loving, handsome, air-headed, jock-like, eyebrow lop-sided prick. It was all just so very frustrating. You wanted to fucking scream. But you didn’t trust yourself to be alone, so you needed Van Gogh’s comfort here with you instead.

“Anyway, how have you been yourself, Van?” “Not particularly good, if I have to be honest.” “Why is that?” “I just feel so lonely in my soul every single second of every single day, deep down, like if it really happened, no one would care at all if I died.” “I’m so sorry to hear that Van. I would care if you died.” You got up from the chair he had allocated for you, sitting down on his bed. You wrapped your arms around his thin, bony shoulders, and he sobbed into your chest, staining your newly brought blouse with tears. You almost sighed for comic relief.

“Y/N, if you died, I don’t know if I would be able to process it.” “Uh, what do you mean Van?” “You’re my dearest friend. I feel so intwined with you, it’s like, you die, and a part of me would die too. I’m already so hopeless and so miserable all the time, I hope you can get help for your demons. You deserve so much more than your depression.” You blinked sadly, playing with a thread of blue cotton on his worn-out mattress protector. “I’ll try not to die Van Gogh.” He smiled slightly, tears still bubbling in his eyes.

“It’s just you and me Y/N. Us vs the world. No one else really notices us. We’re invisible. We could disappear, for all we know, and like, no one would care at all.” It sounded a bit cynical, crude, harsh, and pessimistic, but yeah. You could consider yourself alone in everything; in your depression, in your mental health, in your suffering, even alone in this entirely fucked-up world. “Well, we care about each other, me and you, don’t we, Van? Is that not enough for you? Do you want me to be someone else? Are you done with me, do I drag you down into an even deeper misery?” Several questions that sounded a bit rude out loud, but your depression had morphed into a grumbling, low-ranged irritation.

Van Gogh shook his head anxiously, wringing his frail hands. “No, Y/N, of course I don’t mean that. I just really, really wish more people loved me. I just wish I was someone else. Anybody else. I wish I was JFK. Or even Julius Caesar. Doesn’t it suck to be you, sometimes?” “All the time Van. All. The Freaking. Time.” “What should we do about it?” You didn’t know. The truth of the matter was that you were lost, lonely, anxious, and stuck in a never-ending rut of depression. You were a clone. A clone engineered to be all of the above things. There was nothing you could do about it, you knew you had to admit that to yourself, and even if you could do something about it, that something started with ‘s’ and ended with ‘uicide’. Delightful.

“The only thing you can hope to do is hold on as long as you can, Vincent. Stay alive for the things that make you happy. Like your art, for example. “ He analyzed you shyly, looking around at all his starry-skied, magnificent paintings. “Do you like them?” “I love them. I think they’re amazingly brilliant.” Inside, you wished you had his talent. Inside, you were secretly resentful. _Why._ Why did everybody else have it better than you, even when you wanted to support them, even when they deserved nothing but love. Why did everybody else have something going for them, when you had nothing but this infinite emptiness and despair. You couldn’t blame God for that though. Not at all.

You were trying so hard to be a good, un-judgmental, nice person, but it hurt your soul, and dear God, when it hurt, it hurt your soul _bad_. Van Gogh ducked his head in humbleness, glee in his eyes. “I’m glad you think so Y/N. You’re a good friend and I appreciate you very much. I love, love, _love_ you.” Two more ‘loves’ than usual, that was slightly concerning, like saying ‘I love you’ three more times than usual to a person that was dying of cancer, a forth-coming warning that their time to love was up.

Was your time up? You didn’t know yet. “You’re an even better friend Van, my little artsy angel.” Artsy. Incredible. Wonderful. Amazing. Full of harsh, ruthless demons, but even so, at least he had a way to express them. What could you do to express your demons, demons that would never go away no matter how much you tried? Cry about it? Whine about it? Vent about it? Inside. Again. That jealously. You wanted to be _**sick.**_ Even more of a reason to maybe just stop chickening out and finally pull the fucking, fucking pitiful trigger.

But you had to mind how Van Gogh would react. He certainly was already in a bad mind-space, and if you decided to end your own life, it would only get even worse for him, just like how he had proposed it would. You then checked your antique watch, and it read a little past four in the afternoon. Usually the time you would head back home. It was such a shame to be pulled away from Vincent your only friend, but you had your own small little room to return to. “I should go now Vincent. Stay safe. Try not to spill your red drippings of blood or drink any of that yellow paint while I’m gone.”

He gave you one last small smile, with you slipping out the door from his house. It was like a sunset boulevard outside, like a painting he had labored over, following you, bugging you, his talent was marvelous and wonderful, but it stung, it stung with the words: ‘Y/N, you’re good at nothing. A good for nothing piece of trash. You can’t do anything. You’re even more useless and un-deserving of life than he is! Hark! Stay alive?! And for what?!.’ You tried to ignore those relentless voices, trekking the map back to your house, taking the safest shortcuts.

On your way, over thorn-bush, through wet puddles, past slow-moving motor vehicle traffic, you stumbled into a someone again. An annoying, _annoying_ someone that had been following you from the get-go.

“Lass.”

You rolled your eyes instantly. Not him again, with his bumbling words and his stripped red-white t-shirt. “What do you want?” Un-knowingly to you, he had asked around for your address, wanting to make things right, wanting to make things right from the very wrong they had been yesterday, the weird, cruelling, embarrassing, depressing events of yesterday. “I’m sorry.” You walked a little bit faster, overlooking the shimmering, splendid sunset. “You’re sorry for what, JFK?” “I’m sorry for trying to shove myself onto you. I hope you’re feeling a little bit better today. I wish you happiness.”

You just ignored him, stifling the retched tears in your eyes. You couldn’t let him derail your fucking plan. The wheels were in motion now, it seemed so, seemed that the universe itself wanted you dead, with a rope coiled around your neck, or a gun blasted through your brain, or a couple of pills cooked up in your rotten stomach. With your silence JFK grabbed onto your wrists desperately, just short of gracing over those scars that trailed your flesh, his brown eyes looking dead into your own eyes.

“I don’t want you to join Ponce De Leon Y/N. You deserve to be alive, here with me, you deserve so much more happiness Y/N. Why are you so against that?” You blinked back more tears. “Why do you care so much JFK? Objectively, I’m not beautiful. I’m not Cleopatra. Objectively, I’m not smart, I’m not like Thomas Edison. And much, much worse, I’m not even friendly like Joan of Arc. I’m not rowdy or loud like Gandhi. I’m trash. I’m human waste someone dumped on the freaking sidewalk.” How much more self-deprecating could you possibly get than that?

Did he see how much pain you were in? Did he fucking see it?! It hurt. It hurt _bad_ , like a spike that this disgusting universe had stabbed into your very corroded soul. “You are beautiful Y/N. And even if you weren’t, which you’re not, you’re also so much more than that. You charm me.” “JFK, you’re only saying that because I’m suicidal. If I didn’t want to die, you would just walk right past me, not giving two shits, not giving two shits until you had to go to my fucking funeral! Is that what this is! Suicide prevention because you pity me? I don’t want or need your pity. Let me rot. Just let me out of this mess that’s called my life. Go back to Marilyn Monroe.”

You shoved his broad, athletic body away from you, continuing to walk the final route back home. A plane roared overhead, bustling with passengers traveling from Aberdeen to Exclamation, USA. Darkness was begging to set in, street lamps flickering on. One particular street-light flickered on directly above you, like a heavenly light drowning you in a halo.

A sign from God?

Imagine that.

“I don’t care about you JFK. I still want to die.” He increased his walking speed, trying to match your footing. “Why. Why do you, uh, eh, want to die so much? I uh, being clones, it’s like we were, eh, uh given a second chance at life. I uh, you should make the most out of it.” “Because I was cloned to be depressed, ok!? Scudworth himself declared that I was revolting, stomach-puked trash from the get-go, and honestly, I’m fucking sick of it! Nothing makes me happy anymore. And you won’t either, so stop thinking that you’re sooo special because you’re handsome or popular!”

You exclaimed that loudly, your depression morphing and corroding into an explosive anger, anger even worse than the anger you had directed at Vincent Van Gogh. This nasty, cancerous pit of self-loathing just never ended. “I can’t see you die Y/N. I just can’t! Why, uh, eh, why do you have to hurt me like this!!?” He burst into tears, like a comical expression. You almost laughed. It was so utterly pathetic, it was teetering on the edge of being hilarious. And you just stared at him, dumbfounded. You weren’t hurting anyone.

You were probably just invisible. If _he_ , irrelevant and un-wanted, wanted to take offense to _your_ own suicidal thoughts, your never-ending and hateful suicidal thoughts, quite frankly, there was nothing you could do about it. “I’m not hurting you, ok, Kennedy? You don’t have to care about me at all. Just leave me alone, let me deep-throat a shotgun, and then I’ll be out of your greased-back hair for ever.” It took him a few seconds to process that, his eyebrows knitted together. And then he understood what you meant.

You were referring that you wanted to take your own life with a shotgun, bullet to the brain, that would be the most efficient method, wouldn’t it? You had studied these things, looked up the historic cases. Fear, like an exclamation mark, in Exclamation, USA, lit up in his eyes, alarm bells ringing in his head. “Lass, you don’t want to do that, trust me. Suicide, is, ehhh, uhh, hmmmmmmmmm…..” He struggled with the words, rubbing at his chin cluelessly. “A permanent solution to a temporary problem?” You supplied for him, raising your eyebrows defensively.

“Yeah. True. That. What you just said. Right there.” You were getting tired. Man, just shut up. And what if it wasn’t true? Your problem was a permanent problem! It wasn’t temporary, lifelong depression, cloned in your DNA, in your chromosomes, in your genetic structure, suck it, because when a doctor had written that out for you on your medical certificate, the doc had doomed your life in a white lab-coat with a burning, fake-it-to-you-make-it smile. Being a moody, lonely, un-likeable clone, was a permanent problem, with no temporary solution, no help for you, and no hope for you either.

If there was a solution, the solution had to be suicide, that would end all the suffering, that would end the bugging you had received from the ghost of Scudworth’s dead wife, that would end all the misfortunes and bad-luck days, that would end all the wishing for better times that would not be better if they were still veiled by that stuborn membrane of sadness. “I’m killing myself Kennedy. I don’t care what you think about it. I was programmed to royally suck it from the start. I’m the only one here without a happy beginning, a happy middle, or a happy end. I’m on a roller-coaster that only goes down my friend.”

You had reached the finish of your closed off, isolate suburban American street, and there it stood, your house, in solitude, with nothing around it, almost like it didn’t even have any friends itself. Heh. Hilarious. “Lass, I don’t think you’re going to be safe all alone. I’ll come with you, we can, uh, eh, we can get it on instead. If you’re alone, you might eh, uh, deep-throat a shotgun, instead of, eh, uh, you know, deep-throating the, eh, delicate flower in my pants.” You almost fucking gagged, but still, you invited JFK inside. He smiled dumbly, eyes closed, knowing that he had gotten to your cold, icy heart with his adorable, cotton-candy charm.


	3. Chapter Three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets really dark tbh, you have been warned. It's like a huge vent because I have some issues. Hopefully not too cringy. Idk. I tried.

A HUGE trigger warning: This chapter includes my suicide note (jokes), mentions of self-harm scars, and some really fucked up shit. Good luck.

“Welcome to the crib.” You muttered, opening the creaky door to your house with the key under the aged door-mat. The door swung open slowly, slightly dusted and worn-out. JFK clung onto your arm closely, almost whimpering in fright. You avoided making an obvious ‘ow’ noise, his fingers way to preciously close to your self-inflicted scars. Just a layer of your long-sleeve t-shirt, and he would’ve felt your pain, your torment, your self-hatred, all spilt out over your flesh. But thankfully, his fingers didn’t pry too deep, and you hadn’t cut in a long time, how long that period would last however, who knew. “Is it haunted?” JFK whispered, peering inside to the doom and gloom of your house.

“What! Are you kidding me? It’s my house. I’m not _that_ much of an angst-ridden goth girl. If someone was to die in here, it would be me. And trust me, if someone _else_ was to die in here and come back as a ghost, I would make money out of it, like in that movie Beetlejuice.” Those few statements slightly comforted him, his shoulder slumping, but he still hung onto your arm tightly. “You have a strong grip on my arm Jack. We’re not that close yet. You can let go now.” “Did you just call me Jack? Only my previous girlfriends called me Jack.”

You grinned devilishly. 

He then followed you into the house with quiet footsteps, relived to see that it wasn’t as coffin-like or cob-webbed as he thought it would be. He still hung onto your arm though, clutching on to it like you would sink through the floor if he let go. How annoying. But, being extremely touch-starved, it was slightly affectionate, slightly an enjoyable feeling. “And here’s where the sausage gets made.” You criticised glumly, gesturing around to the inner mechanisms of the house. Your house was spacious, but not too overly expensive or posh. And it was your house. Your _home_ , rather. It was all you really had left that retained any sense of your happiness. It was the only thing you could really call your own. It was the only comfort you could ever really return too. JFK followed you closely past the happier-like childhood photos framed on the walls, walking with that stupid, dumb swagger of his. It almost made you smile.

“Kitchen.” You informed, pointing to the peeling yellow wallpaper and banged-up, magnet-covered fridge. “Living room.” You informed, pointing to the numerous stacks of browning fiction books and old alternative vinyl records. “Master bedroom.” You informed, referring to the two separate beds pushed away from each other.

That made you frown slightly. Distant of late, your parents, sleeping facing away from each other, waking up without a ‘Good morning’ to each other. You weren’t really sure what had been happening, all you could really pray for would be that the bitter cold shoulder they had been giving each other didn’t last for too long. Hopefully. Always needing the aspect of foolish hope. “Where, eh, uh, where are your foster folks?” JFK questioned, raising his eyebrows slightly at how the bedroom wasn’t decorated or furnished at all, raising his eyebrows at how it was just bland, plain, boring.

It had always been like that. Lacking flavour. Just like you, you could suppose in a way. Tasteless. A nothingness that took up space but wasn’t noticed or cared for. Heh. Accurate. “They’re out at some sort of venture or function. Business deals, you know? They’re not the most unique or engaging parents. Blah blah blah, overseas business trip, blah blah blah, I was literally just a brought business opportunity for them to cash money on. Clone for sale, or whatever.”

You felt extremely cynical about it.

Just further signalling how lonely you truly were when push come to shove.

“Hallway.” You informed, gesturing to the ugly carpet and the wall mirrors that showed a handsome boy and a tragic, beautiful disaster staring into their separate reflections. “Stairway to heaven.” You muttered sceptically, climbing up the towering staircase that was also carpeted. “Burning blazes of hell, last but certainly not least.” You finally finished, referring to your very own room. It wasn’t grand of anything, but it was the physical embodiment of you as a person. The walls were taped with posters of your favourite bands, CDs were spewed everywhere across the floor, you were even stacking up on a collection of horror movie vhs tapes, The Thing, The Exorcist, The Shining, and those were just the ones starting with ‘the’.

“This, is, eh, a very nice room, Y/N.” JFK stated, sitting down on your bed miserably. He hung his head low, sadness prominent on his face. The same position he had motioned to while grieving the death of his best mate Ponce de Leon. It didn’t suit him well, it made you feel miserable, because if _he_ , one of the happiest, most popular students at Clone High was sad, how the hell was anyone else below him in terms of life value supposed to be happy themselves???? “What’s wrong Kennedy?” He shrugged his drooping shoulders, but you pushed at him un-unnervingly. “It’s just, eh, uh, you’re such a beautiful girl Y/N, you, eh, uh deserve so much more than this. You deserve so much more than your depression.” You smiled at him sadly, trying to tilt his head up so you could face him in the artificial white light spewing from your ceiling.

He looked deep into your eyes, apparently thinking it was a contract to lean in closer for the kiss. You slapped him away with a smile, an idea exploding in your mind. “I know what will make you happier!” “Uh, we’re going to have sex?” “Nope! Not yet!” “Then what?” You fished through your dusty cupboard, searching for the long, sleek, metal object. “ _This_.”

You had a fucking gun in your hands.

You aligned the target sight with his head, clicking the safety off. He gasped in fear immediately, falling off your bed. “Oh my God, Jack, satire, imagine if this was the same gun that killed your original counterpart back in ’63. How fucked up would that be? Nothing bad ever happens to the Kennedys, my ass.” You laughed hysterically, almost pulling the trigger. “What! Are you flipping crazy Y/N!? Don’t do that! You’re going to blow my brains out! How could you!” You grinned a manic grin, swinging the gun around. You then placed the barrel to your own head, known objectively, you would be better off dead. That’s all it would take. Boom! Bullet to the brain. Just one second of a painful metal, shrapnel perception. And then, sadness. Fear. Depression. Loneliness. Gone. All of it. In an instant. As fast as a click of the fingers.

“How did you even get that gun?” “I swiped it from Scudworth’s office. Poor fool probably wanted to splatter his own brains against the wall. I feel kind of bad for him, to be honest. Without his wife he’s just this, insane, psychotic, deluded principal. With a disgusting, un-reasonable, Lolita-like crush on me because he wants to love his dead wife but can’t.” You raised the gun again at JFK, sighing in a mix of irritation and boredom. “Y/N, put the gun down. You’re eh, uh, you are crazy. I don’t want you to die. It would be messed up. Y/N, if you died, I don’t know if I would be able to process it.”

Chilling words. The exact same words Van Gogh had said to you those few hours ago about your own depressing aliments. Your death? Affecting so many people in different ways? You couldn’t comprehend it. And you didn’t want to. You just wanted to sink down into infinite nothing, you didn’t want to pull anyone else into a despair that you were probably destined for. “I would die with you. You know, like eh, uh, Romeo and Juliet. That movie. With Leonardo DiCaprio. Double death! Because we’re both, eh, beautiful, and, eh, tragic. Am I doing this right?”

“I love that movie, but don’t fucking say that. I die, you get on with your life JFK, you don’t care anymore. You’re not supposed to give a shit about me. And certainly, you don’t give a shit in that tragic way. That’s just un-cool man. Following a loved one to their death like Juliet does is fucked up. Compare that to Scudworth’s whole ideal. He’s ruined my whole fucking life just because he can’t get over the girl who begun to treat him for who he was; Fucking insane.” JFK flinched away from your hash words, slightly shocked and saddened. Your expression softened, and you went to re-stock the gun in its original position, safety on, not to worry. But when you turned back, JFK had your most personal possession in his hands. Your diary of old depressing notes and old graphic vent art.

Some of it was bad. Really bad. Graphic, grotesque, pessimistic, and very, very fucked-up.

“Where did you get that? That’s personal.” He pointed to your chest of drawers, the top one left slightly budged open. “Can I, can I read it?” He questioned, examining the splattered black ink on the cover. It was torn in places, you had thrown it against the wall, you had tried to burn it with a cigarette, you had even spilt your blood on it by means of your freshest cuts. “I don’t want you to JFK. But I suppose you’re curious now, aren’t you? So go ahead.” He flipped through the stiff diary to a random page, and your heart dropped. Bad day. That had been an entirely bad day. Second of November 2002, last year, in the middle comings of Winter, on a photo day, with everything ever fucking imaginable had gone wrong.

“It, eh, uh says here you were tired Y/N. Tired of living. Tired of everything, ever, in this entire world. It says you wanted to end everything.” You blinked back a tear, turning around so you didn’t have to face him. He began reading from the diary, from the note. Your note.

‘I’m sorry. I have, had enough of this. I can’t keep living like this. Pain. Pain I can’t compute into words. Pain that isn’t artistic or poetic. It hurts. It just hurts so bad. Anyway, unfortunately, now the pain isn’t painful enough for me to stick around for, if that makes any sense. It’s not even enjoyable like my self-inflicted scars anymore. I’m just numb to it now. I just want it to end. So I’m ending myself. Delightful.”

He kept on reading your note out loud, and you whispered the words, knowing every cursed line from the bottom of your heart: “I’m ending my life. My pain. My universe. My everything. I’m ending it all. No one really cares about me, no one calls me ‘their everything’, no one calls me ‘their sunshine’, no one calls me ‘their greatest treasure’. That might be an overly selfish thing to want, but even if _one_ person could say they loved me. Even one person. One. Single. Freaking. Person. If they could tell me, if they really meant it, if they really, really loved me, I would stick around. I would maybe want to live longer. But no one loves me. Everyone likes me to a certain vague standard, but no one _loves_ me. Everyone wants my help or my momentary advice and then I’m a nothing at the back of their minds once more.

And I’ve tried so hard to love back. I’ve tried so, _so_ hard to be a good person. But I’m tired, so tired, so very, very tired. There isn’t anything for me here anymore. There’s nothing to live for. Music? I love Kurt Cobain’s songs, but we all know how that ended for him as well. Stay alive for movies? Everything on cable these days sucks man. Art? Writing? Drama? Dance? I’m not talented at anything at all. Ok, so maybe I am talented at generating all this pain into all these words, but I really need to hurry up and finish this note huh. Anyway. I did know someone who was extremely talented, maybe the only person who ever really cared, not enough to say ‘I love you’, though, of course, I don’t blame him at all.

Van Gogh. You were a great friend. You were everything I never was. Talented, friendly, good at art, good at being a person. I know how hard it’s been for you sometimes Van, but trust me, you were a guiding light for my poor lost soul, I’m so, _so_ sorry I dragged you down into despair, you deserve all the goodness in the entire world. You told me once you had a secret crush on one popular, well-liked boy at our school. I think I knew who it was. You should go to him, he seems great, he seems like the love you deserve. You also say no one cares about you, but trust me, they do, they always will. Lots of love. To my foster parents. I know I’ve disappointed you. I’ve disappointed myself as well. I hope I can help this world by leaving, I hope you won’t miss me too awfully much.

Please grow old together and forget about me, I’ve been nothing but a nuisance and a stress. Scudworth, you piece of utter shit, my messed up _, messed up_ principal, goodbye. Haha. Wow. That was a change of tone, wasn’t it? Man look, I don’t really care anymore. I know how hard you’ve worked for these clones but you can’t change reality and reality is that I’m tired, sick, defective, and I’ve had enough of this cursed life.Why couldn’t you have just given me a better life? Why make it so fucking hard? What was there to gain but the fake, hollow image of a dead wife you should’ve let rest in peace in the first place? Where did I go wrong? I don’t blame you though. I don’t blame any of you. To anyone else reading this note, be your own happiness, or whatever I guess. Make a change in the world.

I hope this doesn’t sound too lack-luster or too overly positive, am I doing this right? Anyway, good luck everyone. I’m getting writer’s block and fatigue, so I’ll just end it here, including my life, I have the bullets in my hand. All we are is bullets I mean this, and all that.

To the person who finds my dead body, consider it maybe an opportunity to bring a new one into this world, a new person with a better chance at everything I never had. Goodbye everyone. I’ll be seeing you, uh, I’m not really sure, but hopefully not in this cursed matrix again.”

And then the note ended there. JFK had been rendered speechless, a look of deeply penetrating sadness on his face, his eyebrows lopsided, his mouth hanging open, his eyes cast down onto he floor. The notebook fell from his hands, and you quickly swiped it off from the ground. He looked up at you, and it stung _so_ much, that you had to look away, out of the window in your room.

“Y/N, eh, uh, what _, why_ would you write something like that? Why would you want to eh, uh, end your life? Why? Why would you want to leave me here alone without you! Why! Don’t leave me alone. Don’t eh, uh, don’t end your life. Please. You’re so beautiful, and eh, uh, all that.” So he only cared about you because you were beautiful. Huh. You were not surprised, just disappointed. You were also allowed to be angry, right? Because you were frighteningly pissed off.

“Because it stings! God fucking dammit it JFK, staying alive stings sometimes, and if you have to write some fucking stupid crap suicide note just to make it through the night, well you have to do what you have to do! Can your little, womanizing, macho pee-sized brain understand that! You’re not going to make me happy! You just want me for the sex! Just fucking go back to Marilyn Monroe and then go away! I don’t care! I DON’T CARE! Oh my God, I don’t care, I can’t care.”

He got up from the bed, trying to clutch onto your arm like he was afraid you were going to jump out of the window. But dammit, his hand graced over your scars, and it hurt. It hurt _bad_. You un-latched his grasp from you, already feeling the blood boil like it wanted to run down your flesh again, tempting you forevermore. “Ow. Fuck. Fuck. **_Fuck!”_** He stared at you in shock, anxiety alarming his already tortured face. “Y/N? What, eh, uh, what’s wrong? What did I do? Are you, eh, uh alright? Are you eh, uh ok?” You fell to the floor on your weary knees, pulling your blouse-sleeve back. Bleeding. The cuts were bleeding. “Shit, shit.” It came out like a whisper. A sad, pitiful whisper. Your blood seeped onto the carpet of your room, JFK staring at you in absolute shock like you were just a pitiful, disgusting animal needing to be put down from your misery. You didn’t even have time for tears, but you did have time for more mediocre misery at best.

You snapped you out of a trance, hurtling down the stairs. Gauze. Gauze _. Gauze._ You fumbled through the kitchen, swaying like a drunk from the pain blinding your eyes until you managed to clumsily wedge open the kitchen drawer with rubbing alcohol and medical bandages. You wrapped the thick white cotton around your arm, the blood blotched against the material, the injury stabilised. Ok. It was fine. It was fine now. The cuts didn’t hurt anymore. It was stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid! Stupid that you had cut yourself, stupid that JFK cared so much about you, stupid that you were almost crying again. You sat down dejectedly onto a nearby kitchen seat, just trying so hard to stay alive when the universe wanted to do nothing more than drag you down to honestly, pretty much hell in a hand basket.

Footsteps trudged down the staircase, JFK again. He rested at the bottom, staring at you sadly, his eyes full of a pain you didn’t know he was smart enough to fabricate. “Y/N, I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I’m sorry about eh, uh, your arm, and eh, uh, your scars.” He walked over to you, and you let him place his hand on your shoulder. “Has it stopped hurting?” You nodded in silence. “Can you promise not to do it again?” You nodded in silence. “Do you know how much I love you?” “You just met me, Kennedy.” “But that’s the difference Y/N. You’re so much eh, uh, more of a girl than those giggly, makeup-caked sluts at school.” You shook your head in amusement. “You’re a real beautiful girl Y/N, you don’t deserve to do that to yourself. You don’t, ok. Eh, uh, full stop, don’t.”

“Kennedy, I don’t know why you care so much. You’re popular and athletic and everything I will never be. You love girls like Cleopatra and Marilyn Monroe and even a Joan of Arc who is better than me.” “I eh, uh, I don’t want to be this womanising, macho, horny stud anymore Y/N. I hate it. I hate living up to the reputation of the real JFK, who was smart and kindly and a great leader. You have to help me. I want to be a better person, and I want to be a better person for _you_. Why can’t we, why can’t we find a better versions of ourselves in each other?”

“That’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say, _Jack_.” He smiled slightly, sitting down next to you on a stool. “And I’ll say more smart things if it makes you happy, my most beautiful sunshine.” Hehe. Such an overly sweet pet name, but it still melted your heart. You hugged him suddenly, almost causing him to fall of the stool.

He hugged you back, glee in his smile that he had made this burdened, tired tragedy rejuvenated with a new light in her eyes.


	4. Chapter Four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is angst??? Lmao.  
> You know that feeling when you try so hard to be a good person but life keeps knocking you down and out.  
> I've been knocked down and I want to stay down tbh.  
> Please don't hate me.  
> I just want to be happy.  
> As you can see, I tried my best, I dunno, thanks for all the hits??????

Trigger warning: Van Gogh's is actively describing all his self-resentment and suicidal thoughts. I am not ok. Take caution while reading this hot mess.

"You know, JFK is kind of cute.” You muttered that statement happily, glee slightly porimeint on your face as you addressed your best clone friend Vincent Van Gogh. The talented but burdened painter tried to smile back at you, but you could easily see it was a faked look of happiness. “Van? What’s wrong? Are you ok?” He ducked his head anxiously, embarrassment and shame littering his beautiful blue eyes, you could see that too. “It’s just, that, Y/N, well, you know, I had a crush on JFK as well. And I know it’s stupid and I know it’s sick, but he was really, really charming, and well, really, really handsome. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I understand now, he would never like me in a million years, he likes you, I was a fool for ever thinking the former. He would never love me. Please, please don’t tell him. He would just make fun of me all day long. I wouldn’t be able to cope with it.”

You stared at Van Gogh in shock, whole-heartedly surprised by his shared affection of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. You weren’t disgusted by his sexuality, no, not at all, but rather you were harbouring your own self-resentment that JFK had seemingly chosen **_you_** , so burdened and tired, over your talented, amazingly cute best friend instead. You felt like Van Gogh was so much better than you. And well, wasn’t he? You were confused. “Van Gogh, oh my gosh, I’m really sorry, I had no idea. You can like JFK! You can be with him! He doesn’t need me, not at all! I swear!” Van Goh slowly started to break down, the obvious, painful, excruciating tears leaking out of his eyes. He had loved one single person in this entire freaking world.

And they were in love with someone else.

“Y/N, don’t be stupid. He obviously loves you. You’re the type of person he needs. JFK would never love me. Not at all. Because a boy liking a boy is **_sooo_** disgusting. Go be with him. Go.” You could sense the bitterness in his voice, and it stabbed at your soul repeatedly, spiling your blood all over the floor, blood you had already drained out of your body on purpose previous times before. You tried to hug Van, but in his mixed, hectic, painful emotions, he shrugged you off, needing space, needing time, needing something else to hold onto, but he had no one.

He had no one else but you.

“Van, please listen to me, you can have him, I swear.” Now you were crying too, split at the seams, having to choose between the boy you loved and the boy you loved even more. Van Gogh was feeling slightly resentful, resentful that he was always the insignificant, un-wanted second choice in other people’s lives. “Y/N, can you just leave me alone, please? You’re perfect, I’m trash. I’m utter trash. I deserve to die. You deserve the world. I can’t live with myself. It’s sick. I’m sick. I’m freaking sick.”

You stared at him glumly, trying not to break down. You had no idea what to do, comfort him? Apologize for something you couldn’t control; his sexuality? Were you supposed to tell JFK that someone else was wanting his attention? Everyone option was incorrect, nothing you could or would say would work Y/N. Say sorry? Say that Van Gogh wasn’t loved?? Say that _you_ weren’t loved? Say that Van Gogh was your only friend? Say that was it ok for both Van Gogh _and_ JFK to exist at the same time? And there was fury in his eyes, every single second you still remained on his soft, quilted bed.

In your silence, his mis-placed anger developed even more. He was burdened. Depressed. Alone. Rejected. Humiliated. Bullied. He wanted to love one single person. And that one single person didn’t even love him back.

“Go away Y/N! JUST GO AWAY! You don’t get it! No one likes me at all! Because they can tell! They can tell I’m gay, I’m depressed, I’m un-wanted! I’m utter fucking shit! I hate it! I hate myself! I hate everything! And when I see you being happy with JFK it stings. I imagine myself in that position, but I know JFK would never like me. Never. He thinks I’m some weird, anti-social art student who always wants to take his own life with yellow paint. It hurts. Oh my God, it hurts _so_ much.”

Van Gogh’s un-believable venting didn’t stop there, it continued on, and on, and on…

“I know I’m trash at art Y/N. I know I’m a trash human being Y/N. I know I’m trash in general. I’ll never live up to the original Vincent Van Gogh, so why am I even trying at this point?? When I see you, I’m always so overwhelmingly jealous. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But you’re so beautiful. And you’re so popular. You’re likeable, no matter how depressed you are.

People see your depression as this beautiful, mesmerizing thing, because you chew your long shirt sleeves and you’re always hiding behind your adorable shyness. No one cares about me and my depression, when I haven’t showered in weeks, when my art is only about my pain and nothing more, when I have crushes on the popular boys. You’re the only thing keeping me alive at this point, and I hate it so much, because I always compare myself to you at the same time.

I want to die. I feel so resentful towards you internally, deep down in my soul, and you don’t deserve it at all. Gosh Y/N, you don’t know how truly beautiful you are. I can see what JFK likes about you, you should stay alive, you’re smart, you’re kind, you’re Scudworth’s favourite student, he favours you above all the others. I can tell Scudworth’s fucking disgusted by me. I’m disgusted by myself. Kill me. Just kill me now. I know you’re ashamed of me. I know I have nothing to live for. I want to die. I’m utterly sick of always comparing myself to you, when you’re way better than me. I’m utterly sick of this crush I have on JFK. I’m sick of everything. I just hate myself so much. I hate myself and want to fucking die.”

Your mouth was now hanging wide open, Van Gogh having just finished his long, angered, saddening vent. You wiped away a traumatised tear, your battered, broken body shaking almost more than his was. “Vinnie, oh my gosh, nothing of what you’re saying is true. Look, listen to me, just listen. If you really want to be with JFK, I can let you be with him. No hard feelings at all. There. I won’t even be jealous, I swear you deserve that love. You deserve everything.”

“I can’t be with him Y/N. I just can’t. Because JFK is not gay. He’s a womanizer, he likes those girls with powered faces and sleek hairstyles, and now he likes you, you who is way more better than all of them combined! I have no chance with him! No chance at all! And even if he was gay, which he isn’t, he would never go for someone like me, he would go for someone like Julius Caesar.” Van Goh rebutted with that argument, his tone slightly calming down a little bit.

“People love you Vinnie. You have so many friends at your art class. So many. All of your art friends praise your talent every day. You don’t know what you’re saying. Trust me, just trust me, you deserve everything. You deserve love, you deserve happiness, you deserve everything, and if JFK has to be a part of that everything, so be it. I just want the best for you.”

Van Gogh was crying again, overwhelmed by so much shame and so much evident disgust for himself, simultaneously trapped in and out of his own cursed mind at the same time. “And my depression Y/N. I’m positive that no one likes me. Everything is bland. Everything is so lonely. Everything is turning against me in this entire world. Don’t you dare act like you want to be my friend any longer.”

He took a deep, shaky breath, and then continued.

“I know you despise me Y/N. I despise myself. Genuinely, what is there is to stay alive for? Nothing. For you Y/N, you have JFK. You have your other friends. You have your good grades. You’re talented at writing those sad, beautiful poetry lines you come up with when you zone out in class, and you have no idea how amazing they are when I read them. You’re surely going to be _even_ more popular now that you’re dating JFK. And everyone will love you, everyone will respect you, and I’ll still be stuck here, abandoned once more, forever.”

“Vinnie…..” You whispered in silence, almost scared of Van Gogh’s yelling similarly like how a traumatised child would be scared in a rough, abusive household.

“Y/N, JUST LEAVE ME ALONE RIGHT NOW! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I’M KILLING MYSELF! I CAN’T TAKE ANY MORE OF THIS ANY LONGER! I’VE HAD IT WITH THIS WORLD! I WISH I HAD NEVER MET YOU! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVE ME ALONE RIGHT NOW! GO BACK TO JFK AND JUST LET HIM KISS YOU ON THE LIPS! LET HIM COMFORT YOU! MEANWHILE, AT THE SAME TIME, I’M BURNING UP ALL MY PAINTINGS! MEANWHILE, AT THE SAME TIME, I’M FEELING EXTREMELY, EXTREMELY INSECURE! MEANWHILE, AT THE SAME TIME, I’M TRYING TO TAKE MY OWN LIFE, WITH NO ONE ELSE IN THIS FUCKING, FUCKING WORLD CARING ABOUT ME AT ALL!”

You gasped in fear, trying to shield yourself like you were now scared he was going to hit you physically. Van Gogh lowered his arms at once, shame instantly loitering his facial features. “Oh, God. I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. Y/N, I’m so sorry, that came out too harsh, please forgive me, I didn’t mean any of that.” But you couldn’t forgive him, could you? You were shaking feverishly, crying, dreading that you had even stumbled into JFK in the first place, dreading that you had even been born in the first place, dreading that you hadn’t pulled the pitiful, pitiful trigger, last year, November the second, 2002, in the very first fucking place.

Everyone hated you, didn’t they? You always screwed everything up. You always messed everything up. You always ruined everything up.

So this confirmed it. Now even Van Gogh had left you, so entirely sick of your mortal being. Everything ever good in your life, had rotted away, turning unfortunate and doused in misery. Every. Single. Fucking. Fucking. Thing.

Van Gogh said he wanted you to leave him alone. Fine then.

Don’t just sit there, talented, more-likeable, with more friends, with more reasons to stay alive, with an actual reason to keep going, with your beautiful ability to paint the stars and the flowers, while I wilt away Van Gogh, un-able to even paint my fucking happiness from the first second I was fucking born.

_Why._

Everything that you had ever been hopeful for, turning into nightmare fuel once again.

You had been hopeful for a love you shared with JFK. But Van Gogh had snatched that happiness away. 

Ignoring Van Gogh’s sad, unbearable pleading apologies, you turn.

And you ran.

And you left him alone.

And he seized the yellow paint from his desk in his shame.


	5. Chapter Five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologized and tried to be a better person now where tf is my serotonin lmao.   
> Jokes. Anyways. Thanks for reading.

Trigger warnings for this chapter: Literally everything you could imagine: Suicidal thoughts/attempts, depression, self-harm, vomit, etc. 

It was just a dream, just a nightmare, but it felt so real, it felt so true. Over the school speaker, they had announced it the next day. Van Gogh had killed himself. Your only friend had killed himself. Your best friend, your dearest had killed himself. In that dream, in that hellish, hellish trap, you had fallen off your chair, shock plastered on your facial features. No. No way. Not possible. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

You had passed a JFK, a JFK giving you a disgusting, pitying look. You had passed an Abe Lincoln, an Abe Lincoln trying to comfort you with his annoying, mumbling words. You had passed a Joan of Arc, a Joan of Arc giving you a deathly, stealthy glare that pierced through your insides. The whole school had been turning on you, feuding on you, gossiping you, bitching on you.

You had visited Vincent’s new grave, his headstone so shiny and squeaky clean. Beautiful yellow sunflowers were resting next to it, yellow sunflowers that were shriveling up into rotten, skeleton-like frames. You had collapsed onto the foot of the grave, sobbing for your dead best friend. You had cried, and cried, and cried, wanting to join him, wanting to join Van Gogh, wanting to end your own life.

And then, out of the grave, he rose, black liquid dripping from his eyes, starry nights painted across his skin, almost poetic in his suffering. He had rose to strangle you and your sobbing body, and you had fallen through the dewy, damp ground, you had fallen into the maggots and soil, you had fallen into forever, a twisted, graphic, despicable, forever, that suddenly only stopped when you woke with a gasp in your bed.

It still felt like you were falling.

You were drenched in a feverish, cold sweat, panting and shaking, your nerves buzzing. You rolled over out of the bed, heaving your churning stomach content’s onto the floor. The puddle of bloody vomit stared back at you, your hair all slicked to your extremely hot forehead. Disgusting. _Disgusting_. **Disgusting**. Everything about everything was so disgusting. Flashes were still coming back to you. Vincent’s headstone. The yellow sunflowers. The photo of him smiling, he had been standing next to you, but your image had been previously cut off in his ghoulish anger.

You shook and you convulsed, the dream still vivid in your mind. You had let Van Gogh fucking die. And you felt terrible about it. He had to hate you now, didn’t he? It was all your fault. It was all your stupid fucking fault. The day at school following the nightmare was even more of a nightmare, watching him with his other friends, he looked so much happier without you.

From going six feet under, in your dream, to now sharing food with his friends in real life, oh God it stung. It really fucking stung. He wasn’t dead, no headstone, no sunflowers, he had such a great life now supported by the new friends he had found, the people that genuinely cared about his well-being. But you yourself felt dead. Maybe it was a sign. A sign that you should just hurry up and die already. It really seemed so.

That train of thought was interrupted by a voice suddenly speaking from behind you, and to your shock, it wasn’t Van Gogh like you feared it would be. It wasn’t even JFK. It wasn’t even Abe Lincoln or one of the other most notable clones at Clone High. It was fucking Ponce de Leon. He was faintly fuzzy and green at the edges, like a dream or a distant ghost almost passed on from this world.

You stared at him in shock, the basketball dropping like a dead-weight from your hands. You were currently at Clone High’s basketball court, shooting hoops to distract yourself from your own torturous mind. And there was Ponce, still wrapped and contoured in gruesome litter, the same litter that had killed him all those weeks ago.

“Ponce? What? You died. I attended your funeral. Everyone did.” He smiled at you, a smile that almost bought tears to your eyes. “I’m your guardian angel Y/N. God has a plan for you. He has many plans for you.” You analyzed him suspiciously, noting that he had the sign of Christ’s cross around his chest. Had he gotten into heaven after death?

You sure hoped so. That’s what the cross meant, right? “But I wasn’t even close to you Ponce. You should protect JFK instead. Be his guardian angel instead. The two of you were best friends.” “He’s moved on Y/N, he knows what he’s doing with his life. He doesn’t need me. You do.” Ponce stepped forward closer towards you, outstretching his hands almost creepily. You backed away, slightly spooked.

“Ponce, you’re freaking me out. What’s happened to you? What did God tell you? Why are you wearing the cross around your neck?” “Because I’m here to protect you from your demons Y/N. The devil is taunting you. I understand this well enough. You have to trust me.” “Ponce, my friend, you’ve lost your damn mind. Go back to the afterlife, you seem crazy in the real world.”

You picked up the basketball again, throwing it up towards the distant hoop. It missed. Dammit. It always missed. “I know what you did to Van Gogh Y/N.” Your heart dropped into your stomach immediately, as you ducked your head in shame. “Oh gosh, I didn’t mean that Ponce. Tell God I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I experienced that horrible, horrible dream I think God sent me. It was probably my punishment, wasn’t it? I think I deserved it.”

“You have to tell Van Gogh sorry instead, Y/N. You have to make things right. And then you will be accepted into the arms of God, before the return of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savoir.” You almost laughed, his delirious, un-hinged religious words seemed so silly and so ridiculous. He didn’t take to this response very well, moving forward another step.

“I know you’re fighting demons Y/N. Depression, loneliness, self-esteem issues, eating issues, problems where you feel un-loved by your foster family, silly but also significant trauma problems with repressed memories, personality issues, issues with self-harming and even worse. But you have to be a good person. You have to be a good person and you have to right your wrongs. This is what living is all about. You have to live for me because I can’t. I’m dead.”

You had already tried so hard in your past to be that good person Ponce said you needed to be. How much more pure-of-heart could one possibly become. It was just so un-fair when your mind was also so bogged down with depression and self-resentment. But you had to hide that behind a pained, tear-stricken smile.

You blinked the tear away.

“How do I right my wrongs then, Ponce?”

“You apologize to Van Gogh Y/N, and you offer all your love to him because he deserves it. It’s what you have to do. Van Gogh just wants you to be happy. JFK also wants you to be happy. It was God’s plan that you bumped into him in the first place.” Ponce’s voice was slightly saddened with that last sentence, finally taking the reins away from all his Christianity-like bullshit.

He still missed JFK. You didn’t doubt it. “Aren’t you watching over JFK from heaven, Ponce de Leon?” “I’m not allowed to.” “Why?” “Because then he would join me. And if he did that, well…. He wouldn’t be in heaven, would he?” “What? He would join you in death? He would take his own life to be with you?” “It’s His will Y/N, it’s God’s will.” You shook your head again in concern, trying to ignore the fact Ponce had lost his fucking marbles.

“And what if _I_ take my own life, Ponce? What will your God say about that, huh? Will your all-loving, all-caring God send me to hell and punish my soul for all eternity?” Something dark appeared in his eyes to answer your question, something that shouldn’t have been there at all. Something evil. A crashing-like sound suddenly then wrung around the empty gym stadium, louder than your failing basketball shooting.

“That’s Van Gogh, Y/N. Make things right. Apologize. I’ll be back. Be ready.” “I don’t doubt it Ponce. Very scary, haha haha. I’m shaking in my boots.” You smirked that back sarcastically, a little bit of scolding in your voice, folding your arms. Ponce disappeared in a flash of green, litter-like light. The pained, lonely Dutch painter Vincent Van Gogh then approached you, a fresh painting of you in his hands.

“Y/N I’m so, **_soooo_** sorry for what I said the other day, I really didn’t mean it at all, my emotions were just all mixed up, I have processed them now, I realize JFK deserves to be with you 100%, please, _pleaseeee_ forgive me, I love you so much. You’re my dearest friend, I’ve been crying about everything I said, I’m so, so, ** _sooooo_** sorry.” He said all of that rapid-fire, so fast you could barely understand a single word of it.

You smiled at him simply like you were going to explode, trying to conceal your rapidly-approaching tears. You had no one else. No one else to hang out with during lunch. So you were at the fucking basketball court. Shooting hoops. Alone. But you could still forgive Van Gogh. “I accept your apology Vinnie. We don’t have to remain friends, if you don’t want.”

“What! Of course we’re still friends Y/N. I just thought, maybe we could take a break, you know, um, just hang out with other people for a little bit, just to clear our minds, and stuff.” You nodded, placing your hands on his shoulders to consult him with your own apology, just like Ponce had said you needed to. And you would. You would try be a better person even though it hurt so bad. You shook Vincent slightly by his shoulders to get the point across, his head wobbling on top of his thin body.

“Van Gogh _, I’m_ the one who is sorry. I’m sorry that you have depression. You don’t deserve it. I’m sorry that I’m jealous of your art talent. You don’t deserve it. I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you recently. You really do deserve better. I’m sorry that JFK has probably fallen for me instead of you, I don’t even really know what his sexuality is, I just suppose he’s more into girls. I can’t control that. But you definitely deserve a loving boyfriend. Trust me, you will find one eventually, I know several people that are charmed by you. You deserve the world and I wish you all the best, ok? Listen to me. You are an amazing, amazing person who doesn’t your demons. I love you so, so much.”

He hugged you immediately, he was so short that you had to bend down. It almost made you laugh, but still, nothing was going to up-root your deep sadness. “I love you more Y/N. We’re best friends forever. Don’t forget that. I’m sure the real Van Gogh would be honored to have a friend like you. He even told me so in a dream I had. He said to me, in my dream, that he was really proud of you, for sticking by me all this time, and he said, that he thinks you’re a really beautiful, beautiful person, who deserves the world, and he also said, you are amazingly talented at writing poetry, and every other clone-father and clone-mother, you know, like Abe Lincoln, and Joan of Arc, they are all rooting for you in the afterlife, because you’re a friend to all at this school.”

He fucking said _what_? You raised your eyebrows at this long statement, and Van Gogh continued talking. “For now though, let’s just spend time with our other people and try to recover. We have to protect our mental health. I saw that Beethoven was alone, so I spent time with him. He’s actually really nice.”

Kind of a bitchy move, Vinnie. You held your tongue though.

You yourself had no one else. No one fucking else to hang out with. No one had offered to be your friend, no one wanted to be your friend, no one was going to be your friend. It sucked. It really did suck. You then took the painting from Van Gogh, which was so realistic and yet so ugly. Ugly because it was you. It was a painting of you.

You felt yourself full of flaws externally, flaws you couldn’t even overlook. You were truly beautiful in your smile and in your eyes, but you only saw the flaws like the light patches of acne near your forehead, or the off-putting creases near your cheeks.

Pain. You were in so much pain, whether that be about your appearance, your mind, your loneliness, or anything fucking else in this overwhelming, yet also underwhelming world. “Thank you, Mr. talented. This painting is beautiful.” The Dutch artist smiled beautifully one last time, and then left.

Ponce returned.

“You forgave him Y/N. You forgave Van Gogh. This is your first step to becoming a better person. I’m so proud of you. God has a plan for you. He gives His hardest battles to His strongest soldiers.” His, capital H. The most important, powerful of beings ever imaginable. It was a lot of expectation for God to behold of such a damaged, lost girl, wasn’t it?

Ponce continued on drilling out cliché Christianity statements, but secretly you were fuming. Secretly you wanted to rip the painting of you up, because it just signified further, no one wanted to be your friend, they only wanted you when they had no one else.

And now you were the most alone person of all, your only company the ghost of a dead best friend who had been killed by fucking litter. How messed up was that.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” The basketball fell from your hands again, this time, you were expecting another dead ghost. You really didn’t want to face whoever it was, what if the ghost was angry at you? But still, stiffly, you had to turn around, admittedly hoping the question had come from someone who was at least alive, like JFK or even Joan of Arc. Joan was cool.

The question had come from fucking principal Scudworth. You rolled your eyes at once, picking up the rounded orange sphere off the ground. Shoot with all your hope, _andddddddd_ you still missed the hoop. Dammit. You always missed everything. It was two feet in front of you, but it was like even the ball in your hands despised your very tortured soul. “What’s wrong Y/N? Are you alright? Where’s Van Gogh? Why are you by yourself? Where are all you friends?” Scudworth questioned awkwardly, watching you free-throw the ball.

You were so, so utterly miserable it showed on your fucking face. Friends? What friends?

You just shook your head, ten seconds away from internally combusting. “I know you’re not happy. I can see it in your eyes.” “No one gives me two shits about me principal Scudworth. Like, literally at all. It’s not even an exaggeration at this point. I’m even more depressed than Van Gogh. He has Beethoven. Who do I have. No single person. Zilt. Zip. Zero. It’s fucking laughable. No one would even care if I died. It sounds self-pitying, but it’s very true.”

Scudworth looked down at the ground in shame, picking at his fingernails. You understood perfectly, but still, it stung: Even he didn’t care about you. “You have JFK, Y/N. And the other clones as well, like Abe Lincoln, Cleopatra, Gandhi, Joan of Arc, all the main ones who always seem to get the attention.”

“I don’t think they actually like me, I haven’t really talked to any of them before. Tell me, honestly Scudworth, wouldn’t it be better if I just died? If I just killed myself? If I was just a corpse someone put in a body bag? What is it to this life If I’m in so much pain? Do I get my own funeral like Ponce? I just want to join him honestly.” He stared at you sadly, shaking his head. “Come with me Y/N. We can talk about it.” You threw the ball at the hoop one last time, and it soared into the rim, landing perfectly. Typical. Things only worked out when you had to leave them. Seemed like a metaphor for your life.

You then followed Scudworth to his office, already knowing it wouldn’t work, already knowing that his words wouldn’t compute in the faulty, flawed, depression-coded system that was your brain. Ponce’s ghost trailed behind you, hands still tangled in a plastic straw-net. What was he even following you for? To spew some bullshit about God and Jesus. You just ignored him. You sat down in the front-facing chair, clasping your hands together, pursing your lips.

Scudworth’s office was a nice room, walls all painted a sea-green, like the sea-green of the veins in your arm. It was eerily silent however, Mr. B nowhere in sight. You wondered where he was. Helping people probably, he was oddly empathetic for a robot. You curled into a ball on the seat, your right eye briefly twitching like your brain didn’t even want you to see the world.

“What, uh, what makes you feel this way, Y/N?; like nobody loves you. Because people do love you.” “My depression, I suppose.” “What generates your depression?” You stared at Scudworth angrily, almost wanting to go bat-shit crazy. He had cloned you to be depressed, like you were just some pathetic guinea pig he wanted to experiment on.

And how ever he had managed to do that with his mad science skills, he had achieved his goal extremely well. You were extremely depressed. Almost too depressed to prevent yourself from bursting into tears, and, even worse, almost too depressed to prevent yourself from quite possibly blowing your head off with an automatic piece of shrapnel. You had gotten away with stealing his gun. You didn’t want to find out what else you could probably get away with.

“Are you kidding me? You cloned me to be like this Scudworth. What the heck can I do about it? You won’t even give me anti-depressants. Do you want me to be even more depressed all the time, or what?” He put his face into his palms, like a child sent to the time-out corner.

“She never responded well to anti-depressants.” “Oh, God. Here we go again with this.” “I’m sorry Y/N. I just wanted my dead wife back.” “Having cloned me to look like your dead wife is a different level of fucked-up. Hmmm. That’s really weird. What was her name?” “It was also Y/N.” You supressed a hysterical, manic laugh, turning around to face a dead Ponce de Leon. He wasn’t even smiling however, instead pointing at the cross on his chest and then to the ground. _Hell_? She was in hell?

You understood what that meant instantly. Yikes. You swirled around again. “Couldn’t you have just cloned your wife instead? Instead of, like, uh, forcing me to look like her? I mean, it’s basic logic.” “I really wanted to, but she had her body, uh, pre-arranged to be cremated, burnt into ash and then, well, I don’t even know where the ash is.” You placed your face in your palms, grimacing, this just kept getting worse and worse and worse.

“If it’s blood flowing through my veins or something morbidly-hopeful like that, I will actually lose my mind. Anyway. This is really uncomfortable. I thought you were in love with Mr. B. Boom. Problem solved. Get into a relationship with the robot.” Scudworth smiled slightly at you, but it was a smile still tinged in sadness. “He is nothing more than a mere butler, and I’m his master.”

Ponce chuckled from behind you, a sound which only you could hear, your persona the only one able to detect his ghostly one. You tried to ignore him again. He could just go away. Ugh. Everything was just so unimportant and uninspiring and underwhelming. “What about the hmm, board of shadowy figures guy? He has a nice voice. That’s a good match for you. I’m trying to set you up with someone. Comply with me.” Scudworth leant forward, shock on his facial features.

“How do you know about them?” “Because I came in here to steel your automatic gun, man. I know you probably want to die yourself. You had so much ammunition. They’re always talking on the projection screen about ways to kill you, I helped along the conversation. They think you’re doing a shit job of running this school. And I also stole some of your lab chemicals. Oh, and I know your plan for the clones of this school, too. You really are crazy. Horrifically crazy, even.” You weren’t even really trying to be funny, you were just rattling off the facts.

“I won’t include you Y/N. I want you to have a better life. You don’t have to be a part of it. You don’t have to be a part of the theme park. I can let you free.”

“Ok, principal Scudworth. That’s a lovely thing to say. I mean, it’s totally not like you cloned me, it’s totally not like you tried to dig up the DNA of your dead wife, it’s totally not like you forced me to stay alive in this corrupted world, it’s totally not like you gave me no talents at all when I was cloned, subjected me to pain, pain that you engineered to be literal fucking depression, and that’s just the things I can name off the top of my head! You’re right. I’ll be fucking dead before then. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel anymore. If there is, it’s heaven after I kill myself.”

He looked deeply at you, an emotion you couldn’t discern evident in his eyes. “Y/N, please don’t say that. It’s not a nice thing to say. You just have to think more positively, I don’t want to see you dead when you’re only sixteen. You are a _clone_. You have another chance at life. I bioengineered you for physical and mental combat. Normal humans will never get that chance. Appreciate your blessings, blah blah blah! It’s a good life you live. Yeah. A very good life.”

“Oh yeah, because depression will help me in physical and mental combat. No, no, no, and no. I don’t give a shit anymore. Sorry for my explicit language, but this life is literally the worst life one could possibly have. Oh look at me, I can laugh and I can make jokes sometimes, blah blah blah, but I know, I know that deep down, nobody cares about me, and I don’t even care about myself. I’m not beautiful. I’m not smart. I’m not popular. I’m not talented. You can’t even deny that’s true!

I’m a literal fucking nothing nobody cares about! If I was beautiful I would have more friends. If I was smart I would pass all my exams. If I was popular I would always have someone to hang out with. If I was talented I would at least have a reason to keep living. I’m just resentful and so, so tired of bringing everyone else misery. What kind of life am I living here, man. Explain that with your science. I would like to see you try. Oh, God, I just realized, I haven’t even reached rock bottom of this self-resentment yet. Imagine what that will be like for me.”

“It’s the only life you have.”

“It’s _agony_. Oh God, man, it’s like living with freaking cancer. Pain, pain, pain, all day, every day, every year, forever. You know what? I’ve tried to end it too many times. None of the other clones at this school would ever think of suicide as a way out. So why me? Last year, Van Gogh had been away sick, someone had knocked over my lunch tray on purpose, I had forgotten my science homework, had failed a math test, had gotten a _d_ for my English paper. And I almost did it. I almost killed myself. Because I just thought, nobody cares, nobody’s going to care, nobody has ever cared, in the history of my life, ever. My argument beats your argument. The next day not a single person asked why I was crying loudly during homeroom. I could have died. And. No. One. Would. Have. Even. Cared. At. All.”

Scudworth’s eyes were cast down onto the floor. Even Ponce had shut up. There was utter silence in the room, except for what you could vaguely make out to be the beeping of a far-away Mr. Butlertron. Your statement had been so, so dark, the unnerving-like wind had stopped blowing outside. The whole entire world was bowing down at your agony. But it would never stop putting you for even more pain, and one day, if you cracked, the only way out of it would be suicide, would probably be hell if that option worked. “I’m, I’m so sorry Y/N. I really am. I’m glad you’re still alive. You must’ve been in a really dark place. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for you to have no one that cared.”

But he said that so sadly, it was almost like he meant the opposite. It was almost like he meant he wasn’t glad that you were still alive. He wanted you dead. And it all came back rushing towards you, that even if you managed five minutes of happiness like you just had before with your joking around, it was always interrupted by your self-doubt and self-hatred and your utter, utter pain.

The sadness would last forever.

This wasn’t working. This wasn’t helping you at all. This bullshit therapy session was a lie. So you got up to go quickly, trying to exit his office. Scudworth quickly grabbed onto your shoulder, trying to pull you back down again. You couldn’t see any love or admiration for you in those eyes. Because he probably didn’t think you were smart.

He probably didn’t think you were beautiful. He probably didn’t think you were talented. And although you were actually all those things all summed up together, he couldn’t act on that, because you were just sixteen, un-able to even consent to what would be a fucked-up romance between him and a dead corpse bride.

It was just loneliness in his eyes. Loneliness and a creepy neediness because he had no else. The two of you had no one else but each other.

“What do you actually fucking _want_ Scudworth!? What more do you want to take from me? I’m not happy and I’m not beautiful and I’m not your dead fucking wife so just back the fuck off, ok?” He let go off your shoulder silently, the most prominent sadness you had ever seen evident on his face.

“God freaking dammit Y/N, I just want you to be happy. I’m sorry I cloned you to be miserable. You’re a beautiful person inside and out, and it’s sick, but dammit, if I could love you Y/N, I really would, and I would love you with all my heart. I admit it. It was a mistake. It was a mistake forcing this façade of shyness and sadness onto you to make you more appealing for _me_. I know how gross that sounds to you.

I hate myself for it. You’re right, I should’ve just let her rest in peace instead of bringing back this fake, hollow deception. But my gosh, when you smile Y/N, it lights up my entire day. I have no one else that loves me, I understand that perfectly. Mr. B is not that overly empathic. He thinks I’m mad. The board of shadowy figures guy wants me killed. All the other students ridicule me. My first-born Brian was eaten for a bet. I’ve grown attached to you, because, dammit, you’re the only person that would even have the heart to be nice to me.

You deserve a nice life Y/N. A very nice life. You’re a very smart, kind, young lady. You know. You remind me of her so much. I’ve lost my son Brian to someone who ate him for nothing more than a mere basketball game, but I can’t lose you too. I wish you an amazing life after high school and beyond.”

You were a bit stumped. That was strangely emotional. But it didn’t make you feel any better, and it never would.

“I feel like taking my own damn life Scudworth. I really do. I genuinely don’t know what there is to live for. If I make it to heaven do I get to see everyone one else’s clonefathers? Like the real Van Gogh, the real JFK, the real Abe Lincoln, your dead wife again? My best friend told me the real people are proud of me. But I’m not even proud of myself. I don’t know If I’m going to make it to my eighteenth birthday. Will I even be alive by then? Whatever the answer, it is your fault! Attend my funeral because you couldn’t even let me live with happiness.”

For some reason, there was almost tears in your eyes. Everything you had ever wanted was on the other side of death; peace, happiness, _rest._

Scudworth hung his head low. You could tell he was even trying to stifle away tears. He had turned sympathetic and considerate for you, for you only. “You can stay alive for me at least though, right? I smile every time I see you Y/N. You can’t see it in yourself, but you’re a real beautiful girl. Why is it only you that takes me back to my youth. Forbidden romance and all, but if you were allowed to love me back………” That statement was definitely kind of disgusting, but still, it prompted one last smile from you. He returned it happily, like he was in love with you, which he was, and then you slipped out of his office, returning back to class.

Ponce followed you, sighing one single time in satisfaction like the film with a happy ending was just finishing up at the movies. “What now, Ponce?” “You’re making progress. You are becoming happy. You were laughing. It’s a beautiful look on you Y/N. I can see why JFK has a crush on you.” “Uh, he doesn’t. It was just suicide prevention, what happened when we met. And I’m really not making any progress Ponce. I was just like that because I know if I was any worse, Scudworth would probably admit me to be institutionalized.”

The punk, litter-warped dead best friend tried to hug you for some reason, but his ghostly arms just passed through your body, his hands translucent and un-physical in this realm. You laughed out loud. “Nice fucking try, my dearest Ponce. Your cluelessness makes me cheer up.” You suddenly noticed JFK down the hallway, strangely standing in front of Van Gogh’s locker. And for what? Weird. “Can’t let JFK see me. He has processed his grief. He doesn’t need another reminder. Goodbye Y/N. Remember, be a good person.” Ponce disappeared in a flash, with JFK running up to hug you immediately.

“Y/N, oh I errh, uh missed you so much!! Who was it errh, uh, there standing next to you just now!? It looked like so much like, errh, uh, someone I miss, someone who is dead, errrh, uh uhhhhhh………” “Um, that was no one. No one at all.” “Well, ‘no one’ knows now we are the errh, uh best couple at this school!! Let’s kiss and then make out at my house!!! Only if you want to though, of course. Errh, uh, just a thought!!” “We’re a couple Jack?” “We’re a couple Y/N. You’re a real beautiful girl. Oh my gosh, I love you so much. And we just met a few days ago.”

Sounded a little bit pushy and rushed, but, considering the look of absolute glee on JFK’s face….

Maybe he was really was in love with you.

What a wonderful feeling, light-hearted and fun and charming and exciting and so high above your depression.

JFK wrapped his arm around your shoulders, and you walked past the beautiful yellow sunflowers taped to Van Gogh’s empty locker…

It had just been a dream though, right? 

And you had moved on from that cursed dream to a better, way more wonderful reality...


End file.
